


now the damned have no time to make amends

by theonetheonlyalexthemonarch



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Character Development, Confusing, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, It's bad, Non-Linear Narrative, Pretentious, Rating May Change, Slow To Update, Sporadic Updates, i don't know how this is gonna play out, i don't know what's going on, i think this is post-christine, it's a mess lads, lbr all of my writing has tone issues, look i don't wanna write smut but it's sure looking like that's gonna happen, oh boy, post-christine?, sorry lads - Freeform, the reader is an opera singer, there are some tone problems, there's discussions of obscure art and operas, uhh, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:37:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13984776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonetheonlyalexthemonarch/pseuds/theonetheonlyalexthemonarch
Summary: A series of vignettes. Erik as he changes thanks to the woman from Italy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uhh it's Bad lads
> 
> okay okay so i got this reckless affection for erik and it's ruining my l i f e
> 
> but i really wanted to write a story but like. i didn't feel like writing the whole thing?? and i didn't feel like writing it in order???? so have this strange, pretentious, non-chronological reader-insert-y thing
> 
> it's all one story but. yknow. in a weird order. it's got a lot of opera references, so each chapter will probably be supplemented with a synopsis of the bs you and erik are talking about now and some footnotes with explanations and translations. so yeah
> 
> title taken from a bowie song because i'm Bad at naming things. it's from cygnet committee, which is really long and has nothing to do with this story, but has some great lyrics, and i felt the line was apt as this story is about one of the damned getting the time to make amends
> 
> one last thing: this was inspired heavily by Angel Hands by caitreylove. i recommend it, as well as the book of it on amazon. really excellent work.
> 
> enjoy, i guess. if you can, sorry, it's like super confusing ssdjjklf

You shivered as you felt the slightest whisper of his gloves on your waist. You hadn’t even known he was in the room.

Now, though, you were quite certain. You felt his body, oddly colder than yours, pressed up against your back as he leaned forward to bring his mouth to your ear.

_ “Deh, vieni alla finestra…”  _ he breathed out by your neck, by your ear, the warmth of his breath and the sound of his voice pulling you in towards him. His voice could call angels down from the heavens, could turn devils into saints, could sing sweetly to lead, asking won’t it please turn to gold, and it would be done. A voice that could produce miracles.

A voice whose owner was now kissing down your throat and murmuring,  _ “O mio tesoro…” _

You sighed and leaned into him, into his arms, into his voice, good god, his voice. You thought you might do just about anything for that voice.

_ “Deh, vieni a consolar il pianto mio…” _

“Is that what I am to you?” You asked him, in a daze. You weren’t quite sure what you were saying, you just wanted the music to go on and on and on. You never wanted to stop listening to him.

Unfortunately, it is not exactly polite to respond to such an inquiry in song, so his voice trailed off and his mouth lifted from your throat, though it stayed right by your ear. His silent question seemed evident:  _ Whatever do you mean? _

You inhaled sharply. “A serving girl,” you elaborated. “A serving girl who you will seduce and bed and leave in short order. Someone you can use and abandon.”

“Of course not,” he sighed into your ear. His voice alone could have convinced you. He could’ve hummed noncommittally and you would’ve believed that he’d never leave you. “You’re no maid. I’d never take you just to have your name on a list.”

“I bet you say that to all the serving girls, Don Giovanni.”

“Don’t you trust me?” He asked. He pressed one hand to your hip and brought the other to your neck, wrapping long, deft fingers around your throat. A musician’s fingers. You leaned back into him. The truth was, you did trust him. You didn’t want to. You didn’t like your dependence on him. But it was there all the same.

“I would never,” he murmured, moving his hand to push the top of your dress down your shoulders and his mouth back to its spot on your neck, “ _ never _ seduce you just to abandon you or use you for my own pleasure.”

You sighed in contentment and spun around in his arms, placing your hands on his chest and looking deep into his eyes. Not for the first time, you wished, silently, that he didn’t wear a mask. It kept you from really knowing him, it was a boundary between the two of you, it showed that no matter how much you depended on him, he’d never depend on you. It showed that he still didn’t trust you.

It also made kissing him harder than necessary. But you made do.

He lifted you up and sat you on your desk, not breaking the kiss, and stepped between your legs.

“Besides,” he said when he pulled back. “No matter what I do, how horrible I am, how terribly I betray you, you’ll forgive me.” He gave a charming, snarky grin. “Isn’t that right, Donna Elvira?”

“Cheeky doesn’t suit you,” you told him. “I can think of a million better uses for your mouth right now.”

You pulled him in for another long, deep kiss and started unbuttoning his jacket. He pushed the sleeves of your dress down your arms and pressed himself even closer to you.

You grinned, pulled up your skirts, and hoped to god that he wouldn’t notice that you didn’t answer his question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. the work referenced here is Mozart's Don Giovanni. It is one of my favorites. it's gonna be referenced a lot, because a), i like it, and b), erik directly draws a parallel between himself and Giovanni in Don Juan Triumphant. Giovanni is Italian for John and Juan is Spanish for John, for the record. Don Giovanni is the opera version of the story of Don Juan, which is a famous Spanish story about a man who does a bunch of bad things (raping women, assaulting women, sleeping with women and then abandoning them, killing women's fathers so he can sleep with them, etc. the man likes sex) and he plans to repent at the very last second of his life so he can go to heaven. long story short, he doesn't make it in time and goes to hell because he deserves it, which is a big reason as to why i dislike Don Juan Triumphant so much, but I digress.
> 
> so here's this parallel already drawn for me, and i can't resist it. so in this chapter, erik sings part of the aria "Deh vieni alla finestra." it is a scene where giovanni, the absolute nutter, wants to sleep with the servant of the wife he abandoned because he just obsessively and compulsively has sex with anything in a skirt and he gets his servant to keep a catalogue of all the women he's slept with and this servant is not on the list yet. so he tricks his wife into leaving the house and almost having sex with his servant (seriously, just like... don't ask. giovanni and his servant switch hats and suddenly no one can tell them apart) and he goes under the window to serenade his wife's servant into fucking him. he sings, "Deh, vieni alla finestra, o mio tesoro. Deh vieni a consolar il pianto mio," which means, "oh, come to the window, my treasure, oh come to console my pain." You can find the full aria and translation here: http://www.aria-database.com/translations/dongio16_deh.txt
> 
> anyway, you resent this comparison because the servant meant nothing to giovanni, and he almost got her, too. she was easy. then some guys come to beat the fuck out of giovanni cause of some shit he pulled in act one and he has to run away. but you are hurt that all you are is some easy and quick fuck, especially because you've had this arrangement with him for a while. you call him don giovanni in reference to the fact that he's a shitty person and also because he was just singing an aria of giovanni's.
> 
> later, he calls you Donna Elvira. that's giovanni's wife. she first shows up furious that he abandoned her, then shocked and horrified that cheats on her with many, many, many other women. she is furious about this and starts telling people about what he truly is. he saves a woman from leaving her husband for him and helps a rape victim of giovanni's and the victim's fiance hunt him down for revenge. but after nearly catching him and punishing him, Elvira is alone and contemplates giovanni. she struggles with what she is doing because he's a terrible, awful, disgusting person, but also, she fell deeply and madly in love with him. she wants to help those who were hurt by him, but she doesn't want to see giovanni hurt because she really loves him and she knows that she shouldn't and she knows that she should hate him but she just. can't. then giovanni tricks her into almost sleeping with his servant, she is horrified and upset, but he escapes again. she is angry at him and she is angry at herself for falling for his tricks, but then she imagines him going to hell for his crimes and it just h u r t s her because she loves him, so again she forgives him and goes to him. she warns him that he will go to hell, he brushes her off, and then he does go to hell. she is satisfied with this because she warned him and gave him chance after chance and he just didn't listen. she joins a nunnery, i think.
> 
> so that's why the parallel is between you and elvira. you keep forgiving erik and sleeping with him because... you care for him. A lot. more than you should. and you keep forgiving him, even when he doesn't deserve it.
> 
> anyway, yeah. be prepared for more don giovanni, lads. it's coming up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit we jumpin right into it lads

_ “I am what the world made me become!” _

You stared at him, eyes wide in shock at the sudden shouting. You knew you were riling him up, but now you actually felt genuine fear of him, he kind you hadn’t felt since the first weeks of your knowing him. It threw you for a second. Your heart rate picked up.

“I am,” he said, low and deadly this time and it was somehow worse, “I am a product of the world. You think the world is good? Is kind? Well, mademoiselle, I am  _ so _ sorry to be the bringer of bad news, but perhaps it is fitting, is it not?” He barked out a self-deprecating laugh. “The monster ruining the stealing away the girl’s innocence. Again.

“I was abused my whole life by anyone who knew me. Anyone who saw my face would take it as an excuse to carry out God’s will of beating back Satan and his hordes. The demon child. They would beat all the devils in the universe through me. I lived as a circus act, a freakshow, never being accepted, never being loved. I was beat and whipped and destroyed. I was nine when I first had to kill in self-defense. Can you imagine, mademoiselle? That violence? I don’t think you can.

“All my life I’ve been injured and despised for something as superficial as my face. Why should I give any thought as to what others want? Most others want me dead. I shall take what I please.  _ Whom _ I please. The world could go down in flames and it would not matter one whit to me. I’ll kill anyone who crosses me, I’ll take the money I’m owed, and by god I’ll have  _ you _ if I so desire. That is what I want. I give no thought for anyone else because why should I? No one has given thought for me. I show no compassion to the world, and why bother? The world showed no compassion to me. The world deserves this treatment. It is the only kind that will warrant any kind of response. It is my entitlement as one who was wronged to reparations. It won’t come free. I’m taking my reparations.  _ That _ is why I am what I am.  _ That  _ is why I will take you down into hell with me if I must. I want you. You are part of what the world owes me and I will steal you away.”

The room was silent except for Erik’s laboured breathing. All you could do was stare at him in shock.

Soon, however, you began to feel some emotion welling up inside you. And despite what Erik might have thought about the parallels between you and Elvira, it most certainly wasn’t pity.

“Fuck you,” you said softly.

Erik recoiled in shock. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said ‘fuck you!’” You said, raising your voice. “Who do you think you are, that the world owes you so much? How do you think this works? You come here and tell me that I don’t know how the world  _ really _ is and turn around and say that you’re entitled to all sorts of shit, including me?” You scoffed. “Newsflash, asshole, the world owes you  _ jack-shit! _ ”

“I--”

“And all this shit about ‘the world was so mean to me so that means I get to be a grade-a dickwad’ no! Fuck that! Fuck you! While I don’t doubt you had a terrible past, that doesn’t mean you’re suddenly excused from being horrible! Others have had trauma, horrifying, terrible, scarring trauma in their lives and they grew up to be wonderful people! They didn’t demand shit from the world! They didn’t use past trauma as an excuse to be an abuser as an adult!”

“Who has had a past like mine?” He shouted. “Who has had a past that can even remotely compare to the hideousness of my own?”

“What, you think this is some sort of game? Who had the worst life? If you deem someone’s past less horrible than yours does that mean the fact that they grew up into a decent person is invalid? How would you judge?”

“You’re deflecting!” He cried triumphantly. “You can’t think of anyone who has seen the things that I have.”

“Actually,” you said aggressively. “I was  _ going _ to lecture you on why you shouldn’t compare trauma, but I guess you’re too stupid to understand. Let’s bring this into your terms shall we? Do I know a single person who was treated in a barbaric, inhumane manner during their childhood and teen years? Who was beaten and exploited and whipped? Who was subjected to all of this because of  _ what they look like? _ ”

Erik was silent. Maybe he’d gotten your drift, though you doubted it from the way he was watching you.

Fine. You’d spell it out for him.

“Let me ask you this,  _ Monsieur le Fantome, _ ” you said sarcastically. “Have you met a black person? Ever?”

“I fail to see what you mean. They can become respected members of society these days.” He sounded nonchalant, but you could tell a part of him was shaken.

“‘Respected members of society!’” You cried. “Name one. One black person who is well known enough to be a ‘respected member of society.’ Or, let’s make this even easier. Name one black person who has enough money to come see shows in this opera house. You’re all over the place, all the time. Tell me, have you seen one black person in this opera house? One?

“‘Oh people were terrible to me in my youth and that justifies my behavior,’ well, how quickly you forget, monsieur! Just over 30 years ago, people were legally property. A whole race of people. Just because of  _ what they looked like _ . You don’t see them threatening to blow up whole cities because they don’t get their way. And that’s just one example, throughout history people have been abused because of what they look like, because of what religion they practiced, because of where they were from. 

“So don’t you come to me and tell me that no one has had as bad of a past as you and if they did they would be as terrible as you. Don’t you do that. It’s just not true, so you can fuck right off. If the world was bad to you, that doesn’t give you an excuse to be bad back. It teaches you that the world can be cruel, and that if you’ve learned anything, you should try and make it better for others because the world’s disdain is not something you would wish on anyone!”

You hadn’t noticed you had got so close to him until you were poking him in the chest and he was staring down at you with wide, furious eyes. 

_ Shit. Abort mission, abort mission. _

This was a terrible idea. What had you done? This man had no qualms about killing and kidnapping and torturing people. You felt yourself shrink back a little, curling yourself down smaller.

“So,” you said, your voice thick with fear, “think about that, why don’t you.”

You spun on your heel and left the room as quickly as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy light cones batman these two chapters occur one right after the other
> 
> yeah this is chronological, in accordance with the previous chapter at least.

You didn’t hear from him after your fight. It worried you. More than it should have, honestly. He was an asshole and yeah, shitty things had happened to him, but that didn’t justify anything he did.

Still, he was right. You were too much like Elvira to stay mad at him for so long.

You tried, you really, really tried to dislike him for his actions. For the way he spoke to you as though he owned you. The way he said he was  _ entitled _ to you, as though you were some sort of object. He needed to learn that he couldn’t act like that. Like some sort of spoiled child that had the means and inclination to murder people on a whim.

If he kept on the way he was, God or karma would get him in the end. He would go to Hell for his crimes. Heaven was not kind to those who did not repent. You could see a future of eternal torment and pain for him if he didn’t--

You huffed a frustrated sigh to yourself. You shouldn’t feel like this. If he continued to be a murderous, wrathful, just--  _ awful _ person, then he deserved the torture that would come to him in the afterlife. He deserved it.

So why did it feel like you were in physical pain when you thought of him hurting?

His life had been hard, much to hard on him, and he didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve the way people had treated him. Whenever you looked at him, you felt fury for those who wronged him and heartache on his behalf, heartache, because you couldn’t change it now. There was nothing you could do to the people who made him feel other, made him feel like a monster. His sense of self was permanently damaged because of how life treated him. No one deserved that. You wanted to make him happy, because-- because. Because people deserved better. They deserved a chance at repentance and paradise and happiness.

Then you thought of the lives he took and ruined and you got all worked up again.

He was just so  _ confusing. _ And infuriating. And pitiful and charming and-- and a lot of things. It made you want to punch him. And hold him close to you and promise that everything would be all right.

This was the worst.

You knew that it wasn’t your responsibility to help him change. He had to change himself, to sincerely repent on his own. It was probably damaging for your mental health to carry on trying to help him. It wasn’t your job to “fix” him. You had your own life and your own host of issues that needed to be solved and he wasn’t your problem.

Your stomach turned uncomfortably at the thought of him, alone, depressed, and slated for hell.

“Oh, god damn it,” you hissed to yourself.  _ “Ah taci, ingiusto core,  _ indeed. Where is that man, I have to go and fix things.”

You stormed out of the room. It was so fucking annoying that he had a secret hideout where he could stew and you couldn’t access him if you needed.

“Where is that dumb man,” you muttered under your breath as you stalked down the halls of the opera house. “Erik?” you called in a louder voice. “Where are you? I have to talk to you.”

There was no response. You sighed. He was probably banging out his emotions on some poor defenseless instrument in his secret hideout that you had no idea how to access.

God, he was such a man-baby. Throwing his stupid tantrum because you called him out on his bullshit behavior. If you were lucky, that meant you would be able to talk to him again at some point in the next month. That man could hold a grudge over stupid things for an absurd and unreasonable amount of time. What a child.

No, stop it. You weren’t going to get worked up about his shitty behavior again. That was what caused the problem in the first place. You weren’t wrong and you weren’t sorry for telling him off, but you could concede that maybe--  _ maybe _ \-- you could have said it in a gentler way.

Only maybe, though. There was a chance that he was too stubborn and hot-headed and the only way he could actually be taught that his behaviors were awful was through harsh but well-meaning advice. Unsolicited advice, but advice nonetheless.

But. That wouldn’t solve the current problem. Erik wasn’t speaking to you and would probably avoid and/or terrorize you for the next month, at the least. And also, he was probably either a), stewing and reaffirming his own pre-existing beliefs, which was bad because he had terrible pre-existing beliefs and he should not under any circumstances reaffirm them, or b), a tiny seed of doubt in himself had been planted in his mind, and he was having an existential crisis, which was bad because you didn’t want to see him hurt and you wanted to help him with his problems.

This sucked. Royally. Whoever had the bright idea of creating emotions was just--

It was fine. This was all totally fine. You could deal with conflicting emotions. You were a functioning and capable adult. There were plenty of ways to solve a problem like this. The easiest would be, of course, to talk to him in a calm and relaxed manner in a non-hostile setting where you could communicate without feeling uncomfortable. You could work through issues. And boy howdy, did your relationship-- if you could call it that-- have a lot of issues. But that was hard to do, considering he had run off like the  _ coward he was-- _

Calm. Relaxed. Non-hostile. 

Okay. So you couldn’t access him right now. Fine. You could do other things. You could hang around your room until he showed up. Which he was unlikely to do. You could… try to find a way to his home. That was booby-trapped. You could, um. Fuck, bang on the walls and yell until he showed up out of annoyance? God, there really was nothing to do about him if he wanted to disappear. You’d only be able to contact him if he wanted to contact you, and he’d probably only contact you through a passive-aggressive and vaguely threatening note.

A passive-aggressive and vaguely threatening note.

The answer hit you like a bolt of lightning.

God, why didn’t you think of that before? Give him a taste of his own medicine and then be standoffish and inaccessible! Now, true, maybe that was petty and and could end poorly and did not cultivate the kind of mood needed to have a proper conversation, but. 

It would be really fun.

Well, it seemed like you were decided.

Passive-aggressive and vaguely threatening was the way to go.

 

_ M. le Fantome-- _

_ I’m not going to apologize for what I said, because I’m not sorry. I think I should start with that, get it out of the way, just in case you thought otherwise. I’m truly not sorry. I do think that your past (though I may not know much about it) was terrible, and I’m sure you didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that. I’m very sorry that it happened to you. But the way you were acting was disgusting and scary. Someone needed to tell you that. _

_ Someone also needs to tell you this: I want you to change your ways. I want you to be a better person than you are. I think that the world treated you poorly and you didn’t deserve it and I think that you shouldn’t let those people win and confirm their assumptions about you. I think you are more than your face, or your mask, or your attitude. You’re smart and thoughtful and accomplished and it’s amazing and I think you can be better than the person you are. Because you are a douche. And despite this, I want to be around you and hear your opinions on things and your feelings and all that sappy bullshit. But your personality is just. so. repellant.  _

_ So yes, I believe in you and I like you and I want you to change. Here’s the thing, though: I don’t want you to change for me. _

_ That probably sounds roundabout and nonsensical. I guess it sort of is. But listen. If you change for me, you won’t actually change. You’ll do it to temporarily make me happy, but you won’t do it because you understand why your behavior is toxic and harmful. You won’t do it because you want to stop hurting people. You won’t do it because you want to treat other people like  _ people, _ with their own motivations and desires. You won’t do it because you realize that’s what being an adult is. You’ll do it for something as hollow as sex. _

_ So I’m going to tell you this: I don’t care if you correct this behavior or not. Do what you will; it matters precious little to me. Just keep me out of your strange and franky creepy sense of entitlement about people. Change or not, it doesn’t matter. I’ll keep sleeping with you either way. It’s fun and I like doing it. I will never be emotionally attached to you if you continue on in this manner, but the sex is fun. _

_ I want you to change. But you don’t have to. It’s your problem. I’ll point it out, you decide if you want to fix it or not. _

_ I hope you will make yourself a better person, because I want to enjoy your company. But I’d fuck you either way. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ The Only Person in the World Who’d Put Up With You _

 

You supposed it was neither passive-aggressive nor vaguely threatening, but it would have to do. Now you just had to get the hell out of the opera house for a few weeks while he worked out his anger at you on a song, rather than by dropping a sandbag on your head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ah taci ingiusto core" is another giovanni reference. it's a trio between giovanni, elvira, and leporello, giovanni's servant, but it's elvira's beginning part where she tells herself, "be still, unjust heart," and she berates herself for feeling bad for giovanni and loving him. she recognizes that she shouldn't forgive him, that she shouldn't feel sorry for him and the beating he's about to get, but she can't help herself. you, similarly, recognize that erik doesn't deserve your forgiveness for the things he's said this soon after the argument, and you shouldn't feel bad for him, because he had a verbal lashing coming, but you just. ugh. so you tell yourself "ah taci ingiusto core" because the irony of the situation does not escape you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They fuck, but not explicitly. I'm saving that for later, when i'm better at writing smut ssfhkdfg
> 
> this is, atm, chronologically first. i am working on other chapters that come before this, but for now, this is essentially chapter 1

“Well,” you said as you rolled off of him and collapsed onto the bed, “that was. Something.”

“Hm,” was all he could say in response. His eyes were wide and he hadn’t moved from his spot.

You looked over at him critically. Clearly, it was his first time. Yours too, but quite frankly, you might’ve been a virgin, but you weren’t a saint. Masturbation existed. A fact that Erik didn’t seem to take advantage of.

He might’ve done. It just seemed highly unlikely, or at least it was never  _ good, _ judging on his reaction to, well.  _ You _ know. He acted like it was some sort of earth-shattering, amazing moment. Which you thought was kind of an exaggeration.

It wasn’t.  _ Bad, _ or anything. It was fine, probably above average for a first time from both parties. But it wasn’t anything  _ fantastic.  _ You’d given yourself better.

But maybe it was just. A learning thing. Maybe you’d both get better as time passed. It certainly wasn’t  _ your _ best showing, and you knew it, so maybe the only solution was to practice as often as possible.

Erik still didn’t look like he was able to think.

“Well,” you said again, trying to get his attention. “I think it was an okay showing all around. Practice could be had, certainly, but I think that went well, for two virgins.”

_ That  _ snapped him out of his post-sex daze. He whipped his head in your direction, though he seemed to not yet reclaim the ability of speech. “You-- you’re-- I--”

You furrowed your brow. “You know I can’t understand you like that, right?”

“You’re a virgin?” he finally managed, mouth agape.

“Was,” you corrected. “You’ve certainly fixed that, though.” You frowned. “Hey, wait a minute, was that a dig at my virtues? I’ll have you know I’m a good, god-fearing individual like the best of us.”

He looked away from you to stare back up at the ceiling. “You were. Rather amazing.”

Your suspicions were confirmed. Erik had no idea of what “good sex” constituted. And yet, you couldn’t help but blush at the praise.

“Let’s not go nuts here,” you said, trying to say this gently. “I think I was pretty average. First time, and all. But I could get much better. We both could.”

“That was too noticeably directed at me, I think,” he grumbled. It was true. He was very nervous and awkward.

“Well, that’s why we have first times. And,” you rolled back towards him, “that’s why we practice.”

His eyes lit up as you sprawled your upper body across his. You grinned at him mischievously.

“Practice?” he asked in a seductive tone.

“Hm,” you agreed. “My mother used to tell me that if I wanted to get good at anything, I should practice at least once every day of the week, and twice on Sundays.”

“I’m afraid there aren’t any calendars down here,” he murmured. “How will we know it’s Sunday?”

“How will we know when days start and end at all?” you countered. “It’s so dark. I think we should… practice… as often as possible. Just to be certain we don’t miss a day. Or miss our ‘twice on Sundays’ rule.”

He shifted to flip the pair of you over and pinned you to the mattress with his body. “That sounds like…” he leaned down to your neck and kissed up it till he reached your ear. “A marvelous idea,” he breathed. The words were hot against the side of your face.

You turned your head and kissed him deeply. You were going to make good on that practice schedule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no crazy obscure references today lads, you're in the clear, you can get away without having to learn anything


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion on Faust, clockwork, coffins, and change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is all over the place, but it is essentially two pretentious art fucks' pillow talk. so there. and also. the dialogue is bad and the tone is all over the place, but i'm going to go ahead and blame the characters' inability to communicate like adults and not my own shortcomings.

“No way,” you said gleefully. “No way. Oh my god. I love it.”

He gave you a sidelong glance that clearly meant  _ you’re losing it, honey.  _ You ignored him. This was the greatest thing you’d ever seen in you life.

“I can’t imagine why,” he said. “It’s a bit bizarre, but not especially interesting. It’s just where I sleep.”

“You sleep in a  _ coffin!” _ you exclaimed delightedly. “That is so  _ cool!” _

You rushed over to inspect it. It seemed like he spared no expense in his dramatics. It was made of a rosewood stained so dark it was almost black and was lined with silk sheets. You couldn’t tell what the cushion underneath was made of, but it was almost absurdly comfortable when you pressed your hand into it.

“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself. “This is so cool.”

“You’ve mentioned,” he replied, somewhat sarcastically.

You ignored his comment and instead spun around to face him, a wide smile on your face.

“All my life,” you started, “I never realized that it was my destiny to say this phrase. But this may be the best phrase I ever get to say. The best phrase anyone will ever get to say, ever.” You stepped toward him and took his hands in yours. “Will you please fuck me in your coffin?”

You laughed aloud at the look on his face and pulled him over to help you get into the coffin.

You pushed him in first, kissing and sucking along his neck. Erik had been acting weird lately which meant you hadn’t been getting any, and frankly, you were gagging for it. You climbed over on top of him, straddling his waist and leaning down to kiss him breathless.

There wasn’t a lot of room in the coffin, but that just meant that you had an excuse to press your entire body against Erik. Your legs were tangled together and you were desperately kissing him, all over his face and mask and neck, and tugging at his tie with one hand while trying to unbutton all of his  _ damn layers  _ at the same time.

“Why,” you said in between kisses, “in God’s name, ngh _ , _ do you wear, mmh, so many,  _ ah! _ , fucking  _ clothes?” _

Erik, for his part, was no less passionate, but seemed only able to grab at you and gasp and was otherwise completely immobile.

Well, not  _ completely.  _ Your thigh was pressed up against his groin and  _ something _ seemed to be, well, growing, to put it delicately.

You shoved his jacket halfway down his shoulders, far too preoccupied to finish the job, finished the last button on his vest, and started to push that aside so you could  _ finally _ have access to his shirt, which you pulled out of his pants and began unbuttoning. You lifted your face back up to his for another long, heated kiss.

“Wait,” he said, and pulled back a little. “Wait, hold on.”

Immediately, you stopped and looked at him curiously. “What’s wrong? Is everything alright? Do you want me to stop?”

He was quiet for a second. “I… yes. Yes, I think so.”

“Okay, darling,” you said calmly. “Do you want a break, or are you done for the night?”

“Not tonight, I’m afraid.”

“Alright, that’s fine,” you told him. “Would you rather I leave?”

“No,” he said after a pause. “No, I want you to stay. But maybe just…” 

“I got it, don’t worry.” You gave his a reassuring smile. “Just holding you is nice.”

Almost as to demonstrate, you slid your arms around his body and hugged close to his chest, turning your head to listen to his heartbeat. You smiled as you heard his breath catch in his lungs a little. It was nice to know the effect you had.

“What’s going on, Erik?” you asked after a moment. “I haven’t been asking, but I realize I should. How’ve you been?”

“Why?” he responded.

You shrugged as best you could while still locking your arms around him. “Haven’t asked in while, I guess. It’s important to know how you feel.”

“Not really,” he said, sounding a little bewildered. “My feelings aren’t that astounding. Or important.”

“Hah! Imagine saying that four months ago. The old Erik would never have said something like that.” You glanced up at his face a bit and smiled at him. “And for the record, your feelings are super important. I want you to be happy.”

“I wasn’t aware that there was an old and new Erik,” he said dryly.

“Hm, you wouldn’t be.” You snuggled closer to him. “But rest assured, there is. If I wanted to leave you, how would you react?”

He jerked back and you realized how you sounded.

“No, no!” you cried, pulling him tighter. “I don’t mean-- No,” you said again and squeezed him. “I wouldn’t leave you like that. But. Hypothetically speaking, if I were to get tired of your absurd and inexplicable abs and your stunning voice and your absolutely marvelous and amazing brain, and I wanted to leave you, how would you react? It won’t happen, but if.”

Shit. This was a rough subject for him. You probably shouldn’t have brought it up. But he needed proof of change, and here it was. Or, his answer to what would happen should you leave would be the proof.

His arms, which were somewhat slack around you, tightened for a long moment. Then tightened some more. And then, after a few tense seconds--

He relaxed them again.

“I would be ruined,” he murmured. “I would rot down here. I would be unable to function. Color would be sucked from my world. And I-- I suppose I’d live on. Because you wouldn’t want me dead. But it would be a very-- a  _ very _ painful life without you.”

“Well, there. There’s new Erik speaking.” He pulled back a bit to look down at you strangely, so you elaborated. “I said ‘if I  _ wanted _ to leave you’ and you went immediately to yourself, alone. Without me. You didn’t stop to consider trying to make me stay. Or maybe you did, you held me rather tightly during a few moments, but then you stopped. You released me. You were willing to let me leave if I wanted to. If I remember correctly, the newspapers speak of a time when you were not so willing to do the same thing.”

He blinked at you. You rolled your eyes and pulled closer to him again.

“So yes,” you continued, “Old Erik would never say something like ‘my feelings aren’t important,’ but I think that new Erik needs to learn that your feelings can be important and prioritized, they just don’t need to upend someone else’s life.”

“Oh,” he murmured. 

“Yeah,” you said. “So. How are you feeling on this lovely-- evening? I don’t know what time it is, do you have a clock in this room-- at this lovely time of day?”

“No,” he said in a bit of a daze, “no. No clocks. They’re difficult to get down here. There’s a few in other rooms, but I didn’t see the point to filling all of them with clocks. It’s about nine-thirty, I think.”

“You could probably just build some, you know. You’re rather good making automatons, I imagine that I clock would be simpler.”

“What you don’t know about clockwork and other similar-structured items could fill a book.”

You lifted your head just long enough to stick your tongue out at him and then went back to listening to his heartbeat. “You could teach me. And I think that rigging something to explode and blow up a large area is somewhat more difficult than making a thingy tell time.”

“It all depends on how you rig the area to explode,” he replied absently, still out of it. “And clocks are very difficult. You have to time them  _ just so _ or they will be off and you end up more confused about the time.”

“‘It all depends on how you rig the area to explode?’” You mimicked his voice. Poorly. “That’s not especially reassuring, you know.”

“Ah--” He blinked, as though just realizing what he said. “Yes. I’ve-- well. I suppose that it wouldn’t be.”

“I mean, it’s cool that you know how to,” you said, shrugging. “Just not cool that you’ve. Yeah. But this is New Erik! You wouldn’t blow me up if I wanted to leave. We’ve already established that. So.”

“Hm.” Erik wasn’t looking great. Shit, you started him on a weird existential thing that both of you were going to have to suffer through now, weren’t you. Fantastic.

“But!” you said suddenly, in an attempt to distract him from his own mind, “you keep dodging the real question. Which is, of course, how are you?”

Erik didn’t respond at first. He seemed to be doing some serious soul searching. Technically, it was a good thing. He was considering himself, his devils and his deeds. But with ‘New Erik,’ and all, you had no doubt that he was just now realizing how great his, well,  _ shortcomings _ were. Which again, was technically a good thing, but then he would spend the next several weeks angsting about it, and then he’d revert back into a hermit, and then he’d try to scare you off because he’s so terrible, and he’d completely ignore the fact that he’d changed even though you had proved it in about thirty seconds, and he might even regress and it would be this whole irritating process and honestly, you just wanted to have sex in a coffin, you didn’t sign up for this whole crisis thing.

But you sort of did. Erik and his dramatics were incredibly endearing, and crises were an important part of becoming a better person. And you were only mostly in love with the man, so the whole crisis thing was. Acceptable, you supposed.

Only just though.

Erik still hadn’t responded and you were starting to worry. You might have broken him, like, for real this time. You knew you shouldn’t have brought up the change this early in the relationship, but you couldn’t help it, you just wanted him to--

“Fine,” Erik lied, and damned if it wasn’t the worst lie you’d ever heard. “I’m fine.”

You lifted your head and looked him in the eyes for a long, quiet moment. He seemed uncomfortable and dazed and you  _ knew _ he was feeling terrible and confused and you wished he’d just admit it instead of lying to you. You knew how it felt to have your whole life pulled out from under you, to have your eyes opened to something you didn’t really want to see. You could only imagine, however, how it felt when the thing you didn’t want to see was yourself.

You stared for a second longer, trying to see past his mask, past his skin, past his muscles and bones and person, trying to see his soul. His guarded eyes told you that still, he didn’t trust you with that. He didn’t trust you with his true emotions, with his true self, with his soul, and that hurt more than the mask. The mask, you could understand. You understood physical insecurities, especially when they were tied inextricably to trauma, and his reluctance to show you his face made sense. But the way he hid his person, his essence, after all your time of knowing him, after practically shouting from the rooftops that you loved him-- that stung more than you’d care to admit. The fact that the only answer he’d ever give to the question ‘how are you’ was ‘fine,’ well, it--

It was fine, you decided. It was fine. He didn’t trust you yet, and that was. Painful. But fine. You wouldn’t push him into doing something he wasn’t ready to do. That would be unfair.

‘Fine’ was a fine answer. Until he felt more comfortable with you. Until he cared for you in return.

You searched his eyes for another second, trying to convey that you knew he was lying but you wouldn’t push it.

Then you lowered yourself back down onto his chest and closed your eyes.

“Okay,” you said. “That’s good to hear.”

You heard and felt him sigh in time with an exaggerated rise and fall of his chest. Of what, you weren’t sure. Relief? Exhaustion? Frustration?

“Will you sing me something?” you asked suddenly. He had the most hypnotic voice and honestly this whole existential-crisis-I’m-in-love-with-someone-who- doesn’t-trust-me thing was tiring and, when Erik sang, you felt safe for a moment. Like everything was going to work itself out.

“What would you like me to sing?” he responded, and really, how on earth did he learn to flick an eyebrow up with his voice?

“Mm. Whatever you like. But if you start singing a bass part perfectly, I will actually hit you.”

He snorted. “Such violence. I thought I was the lunatic in the sewers.”

“You’re not a lunatic, Erik,” you said softly, hugging him just a touch tighter than you had before. “You’re just lonely sometimes. You did the wrong thing, but you’re not a lunatic. You’re just a man.” 

You glanced up at him and he purposely avoided your gaze. Fuck, you guys were kinda shitty at having an adult conversation that didn’t go off the rails into a painful subject, huh.

“You’re just a man…” you repeated. “A man with an absurd and astounding range, so if I hear that you are able to sing bass perfectly as well as baritone  _ and _ tenor _ and _ countertenor, don’t deny it, I heard you, you thought I was sleeping, I will actually go insane with jealousy and resentment. Do you know how long I had to work for a halfway-decent sounding higher range, that I still only barely manage? The struggles I went through for my baritone notes, the ones I still can’t hit all the way?” You huffed. “So yes, I’d thank you if you sang something for me, but  _ not _ a bass aria or I swear I will scream.”

There. Hopefully that diffused some of the tension that you inadvertently created.

Erik chuckled, so it seemed to work. “Will you sing something with me?” he asked.

“No,” you said after a moment. “No, I haven’t warmed up, and I always sound awful if I haven’t warmed up. You don’t even really need to, your voice is always perfect, so I’d hate to ruin your tune with my braying.”

“You do not become prima donna or primo uomo,” he said dryly, “without being a wonderful singer. You do not  _ bray.” _

You rolled your eyes. “I was never either, and you know that. I’m not part of a company. I travel. I’m a novelty.”

“But if you were part of a company--”

“I still wouldn’t be either.” You glanced up at him for a moment. “Honestly, for someone who lives in an opera house, you certainly act like you know nothing about performing an opera. Prime donne are almost always sopranos, which, as you can tell from my abysmal range, I am not, and primi uomini are men. It doesn’t matter how good my tenor is or how well I command the stage; people feel weird about having me as primo uomo. I could play Faust, oh, once, twice in a city, but then the novelty, the exotic fun of having a woman play a man wears off and people want things back to the natural order. I certainly would never play the leading man in nearly every show.”

“If you had joined our company, you would be one of the lead singers.”

“If I had joined your company, you would terrorize people into letting me be primo uomo. I like to know that I got where I am through my own talents, thank you very much.” You shook your head, lightly and fondly. “Besides, you know I’m not one for leading roles. I like the villain and the side characters.”

“Eugene Onegin. Don Giovanni. Faust. Rodolfo. Hoffmann,” he countered. “You played all of them in the past two years. The names of four out of five of them appear in their respective operas’ titles.”

“Three out of five! I wasn’t in  _ Faust  _ in the past two years, I was in  _ Mefistofele, _ and Faust is arguably a side character in  _ Mefistofele.”  _ You scrunched up your face a bit. “But you’re not singing anything yet.”

“I will, I will, but--  _ Mefistofele?  _ I thought you didn’t like that show.” He paused. “And Faust is not a side character.”

“The ending irritates me, that’s not the same thing, plus the guy playing Mefisto when they offered me the job was very handsome. I kinda wanted to,  _ you know, _ but I had to leave town quickly after that. And the opera’s not named after Faust, therefore, side character. Now  _ sing,” _ you added in a whiny tone.

“What’s wrong with the ending? And just because the opera’s not named after him doesn’t make him any less of a main character.”

“I’ll tell you,” you said with a haughty air, “if you sing something for me.”

You could tell he was considering his options. Finally, you heard him breathe in to start a phrase of a song.

_ “Son lo spirito che nega--” _

“Erik, I swear to  _ god--” _

He laughed in response and you glared up at him.

“I said no bass arias! God, do you have to rub your perfection in my face?” You pouted. “You’re so mean to me. It is frankly unfair that you have a range like that. I’m filing a complaint.”

“I could have started higher,” he said, audibly smirking. “I could have changed it to be in my range.”

“No, you couldn’t have, because we both know that you have perfect pitch,” you grumbled, “which is also. Very. Unfair.”

“I’ll sing one of Faust’s arias if you tell me what you think is wrong with the ending.”

“You are the worst.” You shot him a dirty look. “The worst. Reversing my own deal on me like that.”

“So it’s been said,” he responded lightly.

You let out a long, over dramatic sigh. “Fine,” you said. “But I won’t be happy about it.”

“No one asked you to be.”

You resisted giving him another look and instead focused on the question. “I don’t like it because Faust goes to Heaven at the end. I don’t think he deserves it. He didn’t  _ do _ anything to deserve it.”

You could feel him stiffen up under you. Oh, god damn it, you had sent him into another crisis. That was twice in like a half an hour.

There was a long pause.

“What do you mean?” he finally asked.

“Well,” you started tentatively, not wanting to set him off, “I just think all the angels and bells and whistles and the like weren’t… warranted. There wasn’t enough evidence of change, really. I suppose that it’s because it’s the final moment of his life when he realizes he will go to hell for his actions, but it’s never really seemed to me that he understood  _ why _ he was going. He made a pact with the devil, certainly, but I mean…” You shrugged. “No offense to Doctor Faustus, but he seems kind of dumb when it comes to things that are not in his books. He  _ said _ what he did was bad, but I feel that if he really thought that, he would’ve realized that sooner and repented sooner in life. I don’t think he should go to hell, certainly. It’s not a crime to be oblivious to how your actions affect others. But Heaven? Meh. It’s kind of annoying that ‘and then he went to purgatory and worked off his sins for a bit’ isn’t a good ending to an opera. I think that would be the perfect ending to this story.”

“How… do you mean?” he asked slowly.

“Oh, um. He wasn’t bad enough to go to hell, but going to Heaven immediately seems--”

“No, no. Why don’t you think he understood what he had done wrong?” His voice was guarded and nervous. You should have known Erik would react like this. You shouldn’t have brought it up. You knew he related to Faust, to the man who sold his soul and yet found salvation. But still, he had asked, and he deserved to hear your answer.

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” you said. “I just don’t. I’ve played Faust a lot in my time--they like the more androgynous look for him, it allows for more flirting between Mephisto and Faust-- and every time, he just. I don’t know. He wasn’t actively malicious, and I don’t play him as such, but he was certainly a little… unaware of the consequences and full meanings of his actions, so for him to suddenly realize everything he’s done wrong and apologize for it and make up for it in the span of about ten seconds just seems a little ridiculous to me. His net impact on society was negative and I don’t think he understood that. It took him twenty-odd years to ever think to repent. To be able to understand what he did wrong and  _ why _ it was bad and  _ why _ it impacted the world negatively in about thirty seconds is just not realistic for his character.”

You paused for a second, considering what you said. You could feel Erik’s eyes on you as you bit your lip and thought for a moment.

“I think,” you finally said, “that he shouldn’t have died at all. That he should have been given a second chance at life, some time to think about  _ why _ he had to repent. About his actions. God could’ve done it. Let Faust live a bit more. Let an angel warn him that the path he was on didn’t guarantee Heaven, and have him go on a journey of self-discovery. Maybe he could reconnect with Wagner. Have him work for his salvation, you know? Have him  _ understand.” _

You glanced up at him, still chewing on your lip. “I don’t know,” you said. “Maybe I’m just talking out of my ass here. But I think that would be a more interesting opera, don’t you think? Going to heaven just seems lazy. I want there to be tears and drama and change. Isn’t that what it’s all about?”

He regarded you strangely, almost sadly. For a moment, you thought he might cry, or force you out of his personal space, though you didn’t know why. What was up with him? He had been more and more out of it lately.

“Yes,” he said finally. “You’re right. That is what it’s all about.”

You caught his gaze and maintained eye contact with him for a few moments. You wished you could tell what he was thinking. He could be very dramatic sometimes, but he could keep his cards close to his chest as well. You wanted to decipher his mind, to figure him out, to help and comfort and solve him.

Jesus, you were just Elvira. God help you.

“Will you sing me that Faust aria now?” you asked him.

He was quiet again.

“Erik?” you said cautiously. “You don’t have to, it’s not a super big deal if you don’t--”

“You won’t sing with me?”

You blinked in confusion. “No?” You thought you had told him your answer to that already. “Like I said, I haven’t warmed up, and your voice is much more beautiful than mine. And I’m a little horace right now. A fact which,” you added suddenly, grinning and thinking back to the previous night’s exploits, “is entirely your fault.”

You expected him to smirk, or even better, go bright red on the part of his face you could see but-- he just went silent. His arms, which had been holding onto you loosely for lack of a better place to go, began to tremble and tense and tighten.

“Erik?” you asked, very concerned now. “Erik, what’s wrong? Are you--”

“Erik is fine,” he said, and god  _ damn _ was that a load of bullshit. Referring to himself in the third person like that was always cause for concern. “Erik is fine. Do you still want him to sing?”

“Y… yes?” You were really worried now. “But only if you want to, if you need me to leave or you need some time to yourself--”

“Stay,” he said pleadingly, and your heart went soft. He was no Don Giovanni, no invulnerable seducer, no rigid and unchanging scoundrel. But you were still his Elvira. Still in love, still weak, still moved to do anything for him, to believe him under any circumstances, still needing to save him from himself.

“Okay,” you said softly, feeling a painful combination of love and longing and pain and sympathy bubble up in your chest. “Okay. What will you sing?”

He was silent for a moment. After a beat of thinking, he started in his rich tenor:  _ “Colma il tuo cor d'un palpito…” _

He sang through Faust’s aria of love, and you quickly fell asleep on his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the references:
> 
> prima donna/primo uomo are first woman/first man, respectively. prime donne are sopranos mostly and primi uomini are tenors mostly. they almost always get the leads in the opera. they have to be really, crazy good (which is part of the reason i'm pissy about the phantom being pissy about carlotta?? bc yeah she might be a jerk but? she can clearly sing really, crazy well, bc otherwise, she would not be prima donna???) and they also have to be part of a company. sometimes, opera singers are not part of a company and they go off, booking various shows around the world and performing where ever. they have to be nuts famous for that, tho. you just so happen to be nuts famous for playing men and people not noticing, causing a sensation when you tell the public later on, just when you're leaving. but it's true, if people do recognize you, it only takes a few times before they get uncomfortable with the subversion of the typical roles, and if they don't recognize you, then you're going under a fake name and they want to heat someone famous sing, not some nobody tenor.
> 
> Eugene Onegin, Don Giovanni, and Faust are all operas that are named after their main characters. Rodolfo is the main character in La Boheme (which is what Rent is based off of), and Hoffmann is from Les Contes D'Hoffmann, where he is the main character, and his name is in the title of the opera, but it's not just his name, like the other four, yknow?
> 
> yes, there is a difference between Faust and Mefistofele. It's the same damn story, bc everyone and their mother has written the story of Faust, but there's a few differences. i'm not going to get into them, but faust essentially only gets into the first half of the story, while mefistofele goes all the way. faust is not a side character in either story, but you like provoking erik.
> 
> "Son lo spirito" is an aria sung by Mefistofele, a decidedly bass character. He's basically telling Faust that he's the Devil and he's super evil. it's also called "The Whistle Aria" bc you whistle really loudly during it. it's not something you'd sing to a partner to sooth them, it's kinda scary. and hot. i think it's hot bc i heard samuel ramey sing it and i'm in love with him. i also have a tendency to find scary things hot but we're not going to talk about it
> 
> okay so in mefistofele, faust sells his soul to the devil, becomes young again, has sex with a hot girl, goes to hang out with some witches and the devil, comes back to find out that the girl he had sex with is now going to be killed for killing her baby (which i'm assuming was an abortion; the version i saw had spanish subtitles y yo hablo español suficiente por conversacion pero aparentamente no suficiente por operas complicadas), he tries to save her, fails, she dies and goes to heaven, then the devil whisks him away so he can have sex with helen of troy, and then he repents at the last second when he's a super old guy and dies and goes to heaven, with this heavenly choir lifting him up and saving him while dragging mephisto away. i have a few issues with this ending. i'm not going to get into it, bc it riles me up, but yeah. i expressed my views in the chapter.
> 
> "Colmo il tuo cor d'un palpito" is the aria faust sings when he's seducing the girl he has sex with who later dies. 
> 
> i don't know if i made it clear that i think the story of faust is near and dear to erik's heart. first, that's the opera he abducts christine from in the book, and second, it's a story about redemption and salvation and repentance and the guy who made a pact with the devil goes to heaven all the same. i feel like the eventual acceptance from heaven is something that erik really wants, so he connects with the character of faust
> 
> btw i said that everyone and their mother has written the story of faust and now that group includes me. i'm thinking about writing the ending described here, bc it's a better ending and also i might have erik write it here are well. we can work on it at the same time.
> 
> that's all. sorry. samuel ramey was really hot in the 80's and 90's so i can't help myself when it comes to mefistofele


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time in the future, two healthy, well-adjusted adults use their words. Not the right ones, but the point is made all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so far out of chronological order it's not even funny. like, the rest of the stuff was sorta random, but at least they were sorta in the same ballpark time-wise. this one's so far out that it's like, not even a ballpark anymore. it's a completely different sport. it's like. like hockey or something. it's a whole nother... ice rink, i guess? idk the metaphor got away from me.
> 
> maybe it's not even a sport. maybe it's an art museum, where you can find all these pretentious works of art.

“Well, aren’t you in a death mood,” you muttered, somewhat grumpy as you walked out of the room you had been sleeping in toward the organ. “I’m a huge J. S. Bach fan, don’t get me wrong, but maybe after I wake up.”

He didn’t respond, but his shoulders tensed up. He did hear you. Sometimes he was too lost in the music to do so. Still, it seemed like he was invested in playing the piece through, so you stayed silent. It wasn’t like you disliked the piece, so you might as well listen through.

He always seemed to become part of the music he was playing, like as long as it persisted a part of his soul was separate from his body and in the melodies in the air. And the melodies that his soul was making now just sounded-- so, so mournful. Of course, it  _ was _ called “Come, Sweet Death,” so sunshine and flowers weren’t exactly expected, but the way he seemed to be pouring everything that made up his person into it made you want to cry on his behalf. Not that he didn’t cry enough tears for the both of you.

You wandered over to him, standing just behind him and looking over his shoulder at his hands. He didn’t need sheet music for this piece; it seemed he had it memorized.

Quietly, you walked around the bench and sat down next to him on his right, looking alternately between his hands and his expressionless mask. He tensed up even further before taking a deep breath and relaxing his body. You closed your eyes and let yourself mourn for an unnamed person, grieving their longing for death and wishing you could make an impact, make it better somehow.

All too soon, the last notes faded out. It was a bittersweet end for you. You didn’t want to hear the pain in the music any longer, but on the other hand, it meant that Erik would stop playing. The music that caught your soul would stop and you’d be left stranded and sad without resolution. If only you could’ve woken up a few minutes later, you would’ve avoided this whole issue altogether.

Sure enough, after a moment, Erik lifted his hands from the keys and turned to look down at you in a peculiar way. It seemed he had something very important to say but was reluctant to say it. You didn’t say anything, waiting for him. He’d get around to his point eventually.

Abruptly, he turned back to the organ and began playing chords you were very familiar with from your old piano lessons.  _ “Der Tod und Das Mädchen.” _ “Death and the Maiden.”

“Will you sing the Maiden’s part?” he asked quietly, continuing with the opening chords of the song.

“I just woke up, you know that,” you responded. “That e flat isn’t happening this early in the day for me. I can take it down the octave though, if you really want me to.”

He nodded silently. By this point, he had repeated the opening several times, but in this time around he gently lead into the accompaniment for your part, and you began to sing.

_ “Vorüber! Ach, vorüber!”  _ you started, and the piano sped up to match your distress. It sounded strange down the octave, but still haunting and beautiful. _ “Geh, wilder Knochenmann!” _

Your voice sounded desperate, pleading for Death to pass you by, to leave you. He would come all the same, as he comes for everyone, but so soon? Why you? Why did he have to steal you away, all for him, so you could never come back?

Hey, Erik wasn’t the only person who put everything he had into his music.

_ “Ich bin noch jung! Geh, lieber, Und rühre mich nicht an.” _ You let your shoulders fall in a physical representation of your despair. _ “Und rühre mich nicht an.” _

You watched his fingers as they carefully coaxed out the transition part of the piece and took a breath to start the next phrase. 

Only to be interrupted by Erik’s hypnotic tenor.

_ “Gib deine Hand,” _ he sang solemnly, _ “du schön und zart Gebild!” _

You looked up at him in surprise. You had thought he wanted you to sing the whole piece, not just the Maiden’s part. Soon, though, all worries left your mind and you felt yourself leaning towards him, completely entranced.

_ “Bin Freund, und komme nicht, zu strafen.”  _ The tone of the piece changed from fearful and sad to a more comforting feeling and you relaxed, wanting nothing more than to go with “Death” willingly. Why was Erik in such a death mood, you wondered? There was really no telling with him.

_ “Sei gutes Muts!”  _ he sang, his voice reassuring and calming, _ “ich bin nicht wild, Sollst sanft in meinen Armen schlafen!” _

You couldn’t help it at this point. You leaned into him and rested your head on his shoulder, hoping it wouldn’t disturb his playing. You wanted to crawl into his arms and fall back asleep, like he just said you could.

The last few chords rang out and he let his hands rest on the keys for a few seconds, revelling in the undertones. He delicately lifted his fingers and dropped his arms by his side.

You wasted no time in climbing onto his lap, straddling it, and putting your head against his chest.

He started in surprise, but you ignored the movement and instead leaned up to kiss him. You first pressed your lips against his left cheek, feeling the heat from his skin. Then to his right, over his mask. The plaster felt cold under your lips, but you respected his desire to keep himself covered, and no amount of curiosity on your part would make you willing force him into a painful and uncomfortable situation, and so you grew to love the mask, because it made him feel safe. And so you kissed it as though it were his own skin.

You brought your mouth to his and exhaled softly. “That was beautiful,” you said, your lips centimeters away from his own. “I didn’t know you had planned on singing.” You leaned in ever closer. “You always sing so beautifully.”

He leaned forward, almost into you, and your body thrummed with anticipation, waiting-- almost there, almost--

And then he pulled back. At the last second, he leaned away from you.

You pulled back, too. That was okay. It he wasn’t in the mood, he wasn’t in the mood. You’d live.

You looked him in the eyes, then down to his lap where you were sitting, then back up at his face, silently asking if this position was still fine with him. He nodded slowly, as if in a daze, before tensing again and putting his hands on your hips abruptly and gripping tightly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he didn’t.

“She doesn’t want him to touch her,” he said suddenly. “She doesn’t want to go with him.”

You blinked at him in confusion. “The Maiden?”

“Yes. She never wants to go with him.” He had a far-away look in his eyes. “Death always forces her to come. No matter what sweet words he says, she doesn’t want to go with him.”

“I… suppose?” you said. “Erik, are you alright? You’ve been playing songs of death all morning. What brought this on?”

“She hates him,” he said distantly, like this was all a dream. “She can never love him. He is ugly and foul and has come to take her from all that is light and happy. He has ruined her, has stolen her dreams and her life away.”

Oh. So that’s what this whole thing was about.

“Perhaps,” you said.

He looked down at you, snapped out of his daze. “What do you mean, ‘perhaps?’ That is all there is. He takes her life, he takes her home, he takes her dreams, her virginity, her family, her future-- she may be fooled into thinking she cares for him, but in the end, Death takes all and gives none. She is trapped. She cannot be truly happy in such circumstances.”

You shrugged. “I just think there’s more to it than that.”

“How can you think that?” He seemed genuinely bewildered. “How can--  _ you _ think that?”

“Well,” you started, “I suppose it all depends on who is depicting Death. In most depictions, the Maiden doesn’t seem  _ sad _ that Death has come for her. It’s often times even an erotic moment.”

“An erotic moment that the Maiden didn’t ask for,” he said bitterly. “A moment where Death forces himself on her.”

“Again, it depends.” You shrugged again. “If you’re looking at the Baldung paintings, certainly. But if you look at many depictions of the  _ Danse Macabre-- _ from which the Death and the Maiden motif originated, as I’m sure you’re aware-- Death is seen in a more light way. He dances, he kisses women and touches their breasts, he seduces and plays instruments and merrily leads people of all kinds into their graves. Some are sad to go, but they all go in the end. The skeletons rise up and dance. Nothing can be done to stop Death, but why is that sad? Enjoy it as best as one can.”

“That is not the issue.” He moved his hands up your body to grasp at your shoulders in a nervous way. “He was seen lightly during one period, but since then, he’s been aggressive. I’m not just thinking of the Baldung paintings, of many, many others. She is never happy to be with him. Look at the Manuel Deutsch work. He turns her head to his, he lifts up her skirts and she tries to push his hand back down. He is forcing her into something she is unwilling to do. He always does.”

_ Oh, no, _ you couldn’t help thinking to yourself,  _ is that what you think about yourself, Erik?  _ You bit your lip. He couldn’t think that, could he? He might’ve been awful in the past, but he… He had changed since then. He had grown. He realized his mistakes and damn it, the fact that he understood that such behavior was bad was the proof.  _ You’re better than that. You’ve changed. _

You did not say that aloud. It wouldn’t have been received well. However, you did say, “Is that what you got from that painting?” in a quiet voice. “I mean, it’s certainly one interpretation.”

He stared at you, not understanding. You decided to help him out.

“I always saw it a different way.” You tilted your head to the side. “Certainly, I saw the forceful kiss on Death’s part, but she does not appear to recoil from him. It always looked to me like she was guiding his hand up her skirt and to her sex. She was being commanding as well. She wanted him, and he obliged.”

Still, he stared and said nothing. But his hands released your shoulders and came to rest at his sides once more.

You brought your arms around his neck and leaned forward, close, but not too close in case you’d make him uncomfortable.

“Time changes people, Erik,” you told him. “Death is an anthropomorphic concept. Why should he be any different? The public’s collective subconscious depicts him in different ways as time goes on. He was terrible, for a time. Horrific, according to the people. And maybe they were right. Maybe he was frightening and selfish and maybe he’d take whatever he wanted, even if he shouldn’t. But now, the people have changed him. Schubert depicts the Maiden as afraid of him, and yes, he might still be scary at first glance, but now, he’s a comforting presence, he is not fierce, but a friend, offering to hold her as she sleeps.”

You looked at him meaningfully, willing him to understand. Hesitantly, he lifted his hands to grab your hips again. He still did not speak. That was fine. You just wanted him to hear your meaning, and understand it, and internalize it. He had changed.

You leaned in closer. “Have you seen one of the more recent engravings Edvard Munch has done?” you asked, barely above a whisper. “It depicts Death and the Maiden as well.”

He was silent.

“No?” you asked. “The let me give you a demonstration of what it looks like.” You surged forward and kissed him on the mouth, pulling your arms tighter around his neck and your body closer, closer, closer. You tilted your head, pouring as much passion and love into the kiss as you could, dominating it. He kissed back and wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you closer, closer, closer and kissed you back with as much passion, but submitting to you, just for the moment at least.

You pulled back after a moment and moved your hands to frame his face, looking into his eyes.

“Do you see?” you asked. “She has the power. She dominates this moment. She is making her choice, and she chooses him. She could leave if she pleases. But she won’t.”

_ Because she loves him, _ you finished quietly, not quite working up the courage to say it out loud.  _ Because I love you, Erik. _

He nodded and said, so quietly you almost couldn’t hear him, “I see. I understand.”

You beamed at him. “Good. I’m glad.” You gave him a quick peck on the lips before settling your arms back around his neck. He gave a somewhat watery smile in return.

“You know,” you said slyly, “if we wanted this to be a more accurate mimicry of Munch’s ‘Death and the Maiden,’ we’d have to be standing.” You nosed along his left jaw and started down his neck, brushing your lips along the skin. “And you’d have to be a skeleton.” You kissed his jugular. “And we’d both have to be, hm,” you smiled against his skin, “much,” you pressed another kiss to his neck, “more,” another kiss, higher this time, and up to his ear, “naked.” You nipped at his ear at the final word and revelled in his little gasp of surprise.

You pulled back and grinned evilly. “I rather think we should give it a shot, don’t you?”

He wasted no time in assisting you out of your dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is about the motif of death and the maiden, because the phantom of the opera is, essentially, a death and the maiden story. a motif is a recurring idea or theme or image. for example, during the black death, there was an art motif known as "danse macabre" or "dance of death." people painted a lot of skeletons dancing people into their graves, there were a lot of dead people dancing. (i also really enjoy the piece danse macabre by camille saint-saens. check it out if you can)
> 
> So this motif is basically the anthropomorphic concept of Death gets a girlfriend. that's it that's the whole thing. the ideas have changed over the years, but the theme has persisted (anyone ever see Meet Joe Black? what about reading the Kane Chronicles? ever wonder where the idea of sadie/anubis came from?) through recent years. 
> 
> anyway, here are the artworks i talk about:
> 
> Schubert, Der Tod und Das Mädchen, composed 1817, published 1821. A song for piano and voice, called a lied. This is the thing they sing together. the recording i listened to while writing was this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QQ1t0OCXh78
> 
> Baldung Paintings, 1518-1520. Baldung did a lot of paintings for this, actually. None of them were nice to the maiden, which is where I assume Erik's complex comes from. This is the one called "Death and the Maiden," but I had a few in mind besides this one: https://www.researchgate.net/figure/Hans-Baldung-Grien-1518-20-Death-and-the-Maiden-Oil-on-panel-Oeffentliche-Kunstsammlung_fig1_313878294
> 
> Manuel Deutsch work, 1517. I talk about two of his works, actually, one where a skeleton gropes a woman's breasts and one where Death fingers a woman. Both can be found here: http://ec-dejavu.ru/t-2/triumph_of_death_6.html
> 
> Munch engraving, 1893. Munch did a few works featuring Death and the Maiden, actually, but my favorite is the engraving that I reference in the story, this one: https://www.nationalgalleries.org/art-and-artists/74401/death-and-maiden-w-3-1894
> 
> lmk if the links don't work, i'll find better ones! Also, there will be a smut continuation of this chapter at some point, i'm just not in the mood to write smut right now. it's also the last beta'd chapter i have on hand, so y'all will have to wait a bit for the next one. maybe i can get it proofread by tomorrow, but don't count on anything.


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